


there is shelter in the desert, there is thirst, and then the lion....

by SonataForMyOverdosedLover



Series: And in her arms he'd kill the Maker, each time, a little more [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, a story depicted in moments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 08:48:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3168785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SonataForMyOverdosedLover/pseuds/SonataForMyOverdosedLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they first met in Haven he had not yet seen the vast desert of Orlais. He had only read of the cold emptiness and of the sensation of abandon that travelers could fall prey to. And yet, when she stepped into the room every written word made sense to him. She felt endless, unyielding and arid.<br/>When they first met he had not felt the growing thirst; and by the time he did, it was too late to find his way out of her desert.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there is shelter in the desert, there is thirst, and then the lion....

**Author's Note:**

> A collection of moments, words, gestures, glances and touches. It might have crossed Varric's mind to get some fresh inspiration for a new novel but truth being told they made no good story. In order to write a story you need a strong beginning, a happy middle, and a memorable ending. They couldn't agree on a beginning, there was no middle way for either of them, and they would not accept an end. Theirs was a story they would rather keep to their longing fingers and their craving mouths.
> 
> First Entry: there is shelter in the desert, there is thirst, and then the lion....

The warm flicker of the candle was almost tauntingly casting a light over the worn-out but once carefully drawn letters of the map, circling a place he longed to forget. Being away from Kirkwall was a blessing and he was feeling guilt at his own thoughts. The world was on the verge of chaos and he was guided only by the acknowledgement of having a purpose. He loved this world greatly and he was willing to do whatever it took to see it saved. While Leliana was drawing strength from her worry and righteous concern and Lady Montilyet’s words were sharpened by the fear of seeing the entire world succumb to despair and death he couldn't see any further than the closing of the breach. He was ready to throw everything into this fight and into the position with which the Seeker Cassandra had entitled him because that was all he had. His will to fight and purpose had started and would probably end with the newly declared Inquisition. What came after, as long as they were successful, was of little importance in his eyes.

The stifled and continuous scratching of Josephine’s quill on the paper kept him trapped in the world of his thoughts but the sound of her repetitive voice, now louder than he had been used to brought the man’s attention back to the two women in the room. If she addressed him, she had not the patience to wait for an answer as the Antivan was now continuing her discussion with Leliana.

“Cassandra should be here soon.” The woman paused. “Leliana, how is she? I haven’t properly met her yet. I mean... she has been offered a cabin down the hill in Haven and I don’t think I ever saw her in the Chantry…. Unless, you know... you count the time she was imprisoned in the cells.”

The Spymaster let out a soft chuckle, so misplaced for people who didn't know her or for people who are not Josephine. 

“She’s… resourceful.” Then the smallest frown appeared on her face. “if not problematically stubborn. I am not sure whether she is not fond of the concept of conversation or just picky about the subject. She doesn't exactly help her case with words. Thankfully her actions are louder than her voice.”

Josephine did not raise her eyes from her papers. 

“That is the Trevelyan upbringing, I am convinced.”

“That reminds me, Josephine; have you managed to confirm her story with the information that I gave you?”

“Oh, yes, that was very helpful. She is of Trevelyan blood and not only that. Their family is quite numerous - with the Free Marches nobility considering power to be in numbers and all that. She is in all aspects Lady Trevelyan, the youngest in the main branch of the family.”

“If anything her name should carry weight in your negotiations. The Trevelyans have always been praised for their piety and dedication to the Chantry. That should count for something when they consider the Inquisition.”

Cullen looked up from the table for the first time.

“They have always made honorable Templars. During my training the recruits used to tell stories about Elijah Trevelyan. His deeds before his fall in the fight against abominations were admired by all of us who were still young. What happened to him was very unfortunate. And the stories that came after… did him and his family no justice. Regardless, this is a good card we have on our side.” 

The Antivan put her quill away and eyed them carefully. 

“Elijah was Lady Trevelyan’s older brother. They were Bann Trevelyan’s only children.”

“Bann Trevelyan? As in Manic Gregor?” Leliana narrowed her eyes. “She is Manic Gregor’s daughter?” She repeated now, not bothered to hide her sincere surprise.

“Can you really blame the man? His wife died leaving him with only two progenies and he lost his only son as well, the future of his name; it must have played a number on his mind.”

“I heard he was a bit touched even before that.”

“Regardless,” she continued, disapproving of Leliana’s attitude “this makes it a bit more complicated. If she would have been of a less prominent branch of the Trevelyan, our pass with the Chantry could have been easier.”

Cullen was considering the woman’s words but the chatter in the room was interrupted when the heavy door was pushed out of position and the Seeker’s figure stepped through the frame, followed closely by the person whose name was on everyone’s lips. Like Josephine, he had not seen much of the woman. The only other time he had caught a sight of her was as their prisoner; when Cassandra brought her in she was unconscious and thrown in prison immediately, with the apostate elf making sure that she was not going to die before answering their questions. As she was being restrained in her cell he took in the poor state in which the woman was and had his doubts about her involvement in the death of the Divine. No one plans something so big just to risk their life as well in the process. Unlike Cassandra, who was more trustful of the woman after she had miraculously stopped the breach from swallowing them all, he was becoming considerably more careful around her. Questions of practical importance were creating more doubts than confidence. If she was of noble birth her attire had not spoken of it. Wearing a mercenary’s tunic and fashioned after a commoner’s needs – this was not a way in which a noble would have presented themselves at such an important event. 

Their paths had not crossed until earlier that same day. They had lost a lot of men when they fought their way to the breach and he had prayed that those lives were not in vain. He had not met Cassandra on the roads and he found that rather surprising. It was unlike the Seeker to venture through the mines in the mountains instead of taking a direct approach. And that was his second doubt. Regardless, it was a small battle that they had won and that changed their morale. The fact that Cassandra and Leliana had managed to convince the woman to stay in the inquisition was definitely working in their advantage. The people from Haven had gone, in a matter of days, from wanting nothing more than to kill the woman (his men had reported at least two attempts on her life while in prison) to calling her a gift from the Maker. And the fact that Cassandra was also smitten with her presence was giving him both hope and more doubts. If being a Templar had taught him anything it was that blind fate without questioning only ended in disaster. And he looked up, into her eyes, considering how rigid and impenetrable they were for someone who was expected to be the messenger of Andraste herself. 

Cassandra closed the door and then turned to the table, acknowledging them and doing the formal introductions for the first time. He studied her – her sharp featured and angular face was not directed at them, but on the map unfolded in front of them. He had been too quick in calling her expression rigid – her eyes were prying as they traveled across Ferelden. Unlike Leliana, whose stare could express cutting interest, if the woman was searching for something, or if she was simply scouting aimlessly, it was completely unreadable. And yet she was paying attention. When Cassandra was done, she glanced up at them, stopping on Josephine. 

"Impressive titles for a force barely born.”

She watched in silence how the pressure of their precarious situation was talking a toll on them and disagreements were heavy and dense enough to be cut with a blade. It gave him an uncomfortable feeling that she was gaining satisfaction from their difficulties concerning the degree of involvement that the Templars or the Mages should have in the Inquisition. But her interest was short as she returned her focus to the map. 

He was expecting a reaction from the woman when Josephine mentioned the unfavorable spot in which the Chantry was putting her but all that escaped her lips was a pertinent, if not an amused remark.

“That didn't take long. I had no idea I was any concern of theirs.”

The fever of the topic was getting the best of him.

“Shouldn't they be busy arguing over who’s going to become Divine?” 

Josephine dismissed him, her interest in the woman strongly visible. 

“Some are calling you the ‘Herald of Andraste’, and that frightens the Chantry. The remaining clerics have declared it blasphemy, and we heretics for harboring you. This affects us greatly; it limits our options. Approaching the mages or Templars for help is currently out of the question.”

Something in Josephine’s words triggered a readable reaction from the woman as she looked up completely for the first time, cutting the Ambassador’s words.

"Just how am I the Herald of Andraste?”

Cassandra lost not a breath in explaining the consequences of her actions and Cullen felt the passion in her voice. He leaned more heavily on the hilt of his sword as he noticed disapproval strongly gripping the woman’s features.

“It’s quite the title isn't it? How do you feel about that?”

She narrowed her amber eyes and glared his way almost as if insulted. Her dark lips barely parted when she let out the low hiss.

“I am no herald of anything; particularity not Andraste.” 

That sudden burst of attitude took everyone by surprise and he noticed it in the way their bodies tensed. Unexpectedly, the easiness with which he reacted felt almost like betrayal to his better judgment. 

“I am sure that the Chantry would agree.”

As Leliana got carried away with the importance of this newly acquired title, Cullen stood his ground under the herald’s piercing stare. She took his question as a personal offence and was not hiding it. He felt that if he were to look away he’d lose authority in front of the noble. Peculiarly enough he was relieved at the thought of the woman in front of him not feeling comfortable with the title of prophet. He was however aware of his true emotions and insecurities when he focused on the strong grip he had on his sword, masked only by the thick glove. 

He had grown up with descriptions and chants of Andraste – of her delicate and feminine presence; of her soft yet endless strength; her fair presence, her kind and honest eyes and her righteous, unshakable appearance. The woman in front of him had nothing from that. There was no kindness in her eyes and nothing delicate in the way she was bearing herself. She was tall and if anything she was impressive. If she could inspire anything in a man that would be fear and doubt. Her high and sharp cheekbones were adding a menacing feeling and her two scars were almost lost on her complexion, yet hard to miss if you’d focus on her full lips. The coldness and indifference of the nobles were present in her features but her statuesque and grounded figure told the story of a trained and world-witted person. She was a memorable sight in the most predatory sense. If she truly was a messenger of Andraste, unholy as his thoughts might be, the Maker must have had a twisted sense of humour. 

She turned away her attention when Leliana mentioned Mother Giselle and her intentions to talk to her.

“Why would someone from the Chantry offer their help? I though we already agreed they are not exactly fond of my existence.”

“Not everyone shares the same opinion. And if there is even a chance of gaining a favor from one of the two parties…”

“You suspect this could be a trap?” Cassandra voiced the concern behind the woman’s question. After a moment of consideration however, she shrugged it off. 

“I guess as long as she does not plan on boring the life out of me with the usual Chantry bullshit, it’s worth seeing what she has to say.”

“That is a rather… uncommon opinion about the clerics from a member of the Trevelyan family.” Josephine was the one to put into words the cause of their tension. It was true. They had not counted on a rather hostile attitude from the ‘herald’ regarding the Chantry.

The woman glanced at the Antivan.

“If you were expecting piteous dedication and constant praising of the Maker, you are looking at the wrong Trevelyan. I am afraid you have drawn the shortest and unluckiest straw on this one.”

Her narrow, cat-like eyes closed even more if possible as she brought her gloved hand to everyone’s attention.

“I don’t know what this is or how I got it. At best it’s some sort of magic. What if an elf, or better yet, a qunari had stepped out of the Fade instead of me? Would you have called them ‘herald of Andraste’ as well?”

Cassandra frowned. “There is no point in debating that, is it? You were the one who returned and our soldiers have seen a female figure guiding you from behind. I also know what I heard at the ruins of the Conclave. While I might not trust your intentions I trust myself – what I heard and witnessed.”

“I meant no offence, Seeker.” Her hand turned into a soft fist as she let it down. “However, I don’t believe in your Maker and I would be grateful if you’d stop shoving him in my face. If there’s anything you want to trust – trust my intentions; because as long as this stops the cancer from spreading I am with your Inquisition. But I will be doing it on my own terms… as I always have. Your God will not take credit for my work. You can tell that to the people who insist on calling me a herald.” The woman stopped and watched Cassandra with calculated respect. Then her eyes softened. “If you were hoping for a believer maybe you’d have been better off with an elf or a qunari after all.”

The woman approached the table and grabbed one of the wooden pieces, placing it not far from Redcliffe.

“With the Inquisition’s approval, I’ll go prepare for the journey to the Hinterlands. Cassandra, let me know when we’re clear to depart.” She stepped back. 

The Seeker nodded. “In the meantime let’s think of other options.” 

As the woman was retreating she turned one more time and looked over her shoulder at the warrior.

“Also, I am going to ask that the dwarf sticks around the Inquisition. I hope you won’t mind… much. If I am going to go out there, hunting demons and whatever else I’d rather have someone with a good aim watching my back. And that crossbow is impressively accurate.” 

Cassandra barely suppressed her disapproval as a defeated grimace appeared on her face. With a coy grin, the woman nodded her head and stepped out of the room, leaving the four of them sharing a moment of silence.

“Well… she’s definitely not what one would expect.”

“I will keep an eye on her, Ambassador. She is instrumental for the Inquisition and I am not going to allow any mistakes.”

The Seeker spoke with full confidence, something that Cullen couldn't share. People were always guided by something in life; but they were also tempered by their conscience or faith. Those that craved for something were hard to move but it rarely was impossible. The truly dangerous ones were the ones that lacked faith; because without faith they feared nothing; and without fear, they were unpredictable. The unpredictable could not be controlled. 

The second time he had seen the woman was inside the strong walls of the Chantry, in the dim light of the candles barely keeping the shadows away. She felt like a piece that did not belong there, an institution of her own, self-governed and rough. He had spent enough time in The Free Marches to know where their pride lay. And yet she did not remind him of the people from Kirkwall. The first time he had seen her, because of her earthly complexion, he thought of Josephine. But the Antivan was lively, vivacious and radiant. Now that this woman could act and speak for herself he realized that they were nothing alike. He had never been a traveled man, and yet he heard stories of the arid desert of Orlais. The depiction of endless, empty dunes bathed in the sun, the suffocating heavy air during the day and the cold, will-freezing nights - her presence brought him back to the books he had read in his younger years on the Hissing Wastes in the Western Approach. He felt like a man lost in the vast desert and that was unnerving. When she left the room he found himself back in Haven, back to his worries and the chaos that was upon them all. For a moment, the only true thing that terrified him was the faith –shaking realization that her numbing emptiness had taken away both his fears and purpose. He couldn't allow himself that, so for the first time in years he welcomed his demons back into his mind.


End file.
